


keep me crazy

by jywait



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, More Terrible People, Pining, Terrible Cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:44:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jywait/pseuds/jywait
Summary: “Why?” France questioned, utterly confused.England looked away, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeves. “I want to...impress them,” he said finally.In other words, England asks France to teach him how to bake to impress someone.





	keep me crazy

**Author's Note:**

> title from song of the same name. i’ve always thought it was perfect for them aha  
> hmu on jywait on tumblr! id love to hear what you think!

“F-France,” England stuttered out.

France whipped his head at the clear nervousness in England’s voice. He watched England seem to take a deep breath, closing his eyes, before opening them again to stare at France head on.

“Teach me how to bake,” England demanded, and France’s jaw dropped.

“What?” He asked, incredulous, and England flushed.

“You heard me,” England snapped, still red, yet his voice didn’t waver.

“Somehow,” France said, “I think I may have misheard you.” He must have, no way England voluntarily went to him for help. He wouldn’t go to the other unless he had no choice. And even then he’d rather die.

“Teach me. How to bake.” England gritted out irritably. France felt a smirk play at his lips.

“Oho, for you to ask me something, you must be very desperate, _non_?” France barely restrained the urge to laugh at England’s very obviously distressed face. Can’t let him be too pissed off to leave, after all.

England wrapped his hand on his arm. “I...That is- I want to do this for someone, that’s all!” He said, and the urge to smile that France had felt rising dropped immediately.

For...someone?

“Why?” France questioned, utterly confused.

England looked away, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeves. “I want to...impress them,” he said finally.

France’s heart dropped. Oh. More than anyone he should know what England means, what he actually intended.

He liked someone.

The stinging pain in France’s heart increased when that thought came to him. God, he knew it was true, England wasn’t particularly subtle.

France looked down, clenching the hands he hid behind his back. England was still fidgeting nervously, scratching his cheek and darting his eyes. He, France thought, not without a trace of upset, must really like this person.

“Alright,” he agreed easily, despite the way his chest was starting to hurt. England seemed to brighten, and France’s breath hitched at the glimmer in the other’s eyes. “W-well, when can we start?” England asked.

When? France would much rather go home and wallow in sadness while watching England’s (boring) romantic movies but alas, there was a meeting, and no way France could run off.

“After the meeting,” France said, “I’ll meet you at your house.” England nodded, then went to his seat, which, thankfully, was far away, France wasn’t sure what he would’ve done if England was beside him the whole meeting.

He managed to not look at England the whole meeting, though he did feel someone’s eyes on him.

~

“ _Non_! Stir it more, it looks more curdled than spoilt milk!” France shouted, and England winced, the bowl of batter in his hands jostling.

“Stop bloody yelling at me!” England shouted back, drops of batter spilling onto the floor.

“Now you’ve made a mess!” France shouted, again. It’s a wonder the neighbours haven’t come to check the noise. Or called the police.

England slammed the bowl onto the table, shoulders heaving. France tilted his head back, sighing loudly and trying to calm himself down. Maybe he ought to be more relaxed, it’s not as if he didn’t already know how bad a cook England was.

France ran a hand through his hair, letting out another sigh. Perhaps...he was more frustrated at himself than at England. If only he had made his move sooner, instead of dancing around his feelings, he wouldn’t be feeling so jealous and disappointed as he was now.

England kept quiet, and worriedly, France looked over at the other, noticing the curve of the back that was turned to him.

“ _Angleterre_?” He called softly.

France flinched at England suddenly speaking up. “I think,” the other said quietly, “I’m finished for today.” He turned to France, expression blank. “I suppose I have to thank you for today. I’m...going to my room now,” he turned to leave.

France frowned. Was England sick of him always shouting at the other? He hadn’t meant to be so pissy, he was just frustrated, he just-

Wanted you, France thought.

England already left the kitchen, not even bothering to turn back to see France psyching himself up. It’s now or never.

“England!” France called, and England froze in his step, not turning around.

“What.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and France’s frown deepened.

“I’m sorry.” France turned his head, finding it hard to look at England when the other had turned to stare at him in surprise and mild frustration. “I wasn’t trying to be so...annoying, I suppose.” For a beat, England said nothing, brows drawing together.

“It’s not your fault, France,” England said, sounding very much resigned and weary. France blinked, wondering where his apology had gone wrong. “Then? Why would you-“

“It’s nothing, France, just leave it,” England interrupted him, folding his arms and glaring at the floor. He didn’t seem angry at him specifically, France thought.

He narrowed his eyes. “Angleterre, I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” he said. England raised his head to look directly into his eyes, then turned away.

“France, leave.”

“ _Non_.”

“France.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he asked, determined to wring the truth out of England, by force, if he had to. For a second he wondered if it was cruel to make England admit something he wasn’t ready to, but the day had dragged out what little patience he had.

“F-France,” England gulped visibly, paling when France stalked towards him.

“ _Angleterre_.”

“I-“ When England turned to run France grabbed his arm, feeling the heat radiate off England’s skin.

“Tell me,” he said, “please,” he tacked the magic word at the end. Maybe that’d convince him.

England’s eyes were wide, and very much afraid. His lips were parted, as if he was on the very edge of admitting something. He tried to pull away his arm, but France wouldn’t let him.

“I-I,” England started, and France held his breath in anticipation.

Only to lose it when he felt a brush of lips against his. For a short, magical even, moment, France feel the day’s frustration, the pain of his heart, melt off, leaving a lingering warmth in his chest that was both surprising and welcome.

England wrenched his arms away from France’s, horror etched onto his face.

“I-I didn’t- Oh good lord,” England stammered, turning redder with each second. France stared at him, stunned, raising a hand to brush his fingers against the lips that had just been on the other’s a few seconds ago.

“It was- I never- I’m-“ England continued, running a hand through his hair and messing it. He looked stressed, trembling a little as he blinked rapidly.

France, snapping out of his trance, cupped England’s too warm face, and placed his lips against the other’s.

It was perfect, despite England shaking a little. France pressed on, using a hand to link his fingers with England’s hand and bringing them closer together. England softened into the kiss, and France sighed into the kiss.

~

“Cut those vegetables up for me, won’t you?” France asked, not looking away from where he was currently stirring a pot.

England hummed, and cut the vegetables.

“Add a pinch of salt,” France murmured thoughtfully, “and it’d be perfect.”

“Honestly,” England said, sounding irritatedly impressed, “you should stay here and cook instead.”

France laughed. “Are you admitting I’m a better cook than you are?”

England huffed. “Don’t get so full of yourself. You have to be good at at least something, after all.”

“Maybe you should learn, then, England,” he all but purred the other’s name, watching the way England shivered.

“I’m good enough, thank you very much.”

“Whatever happened to wanting to impress me?” He asked, biting back a smile at England going pink.

“Wh-Who said I wanted to impress you?”

France levelled him with an unimpressed look. “Of course,” he said placatingly, saccharine sweet.

England narrowed his eyes, pointing a knife at him. Then he went quiet. France blinked in astonishment.

“Well...” England said, “I wanted to...show you, I suppose.”

“Show me?” France wondered.

“You‘re excellent at cooking, admittedly, and you always tease me for being bad at it. I only wanted...to prove myself otherwise, and spend time with you.” England mumbled.

France, for one of the very few times in his life, blushed.

England looked over at his pot. “Oi, France, you should pay attention to the pot.”

France nearly dropped the wooden spoon in his hands. “R-right,” he thought, England actually telling how he felt, and in such a cute way? He couldn’t take anymore of this.

“My heart,” he murmured.

~

“So! How was it? Not such a half baked plan, right?” America asked.

England wrinkled his nose. “Was that a pun?”

“Gotta say, I cooked up a pretty good one!” America continued. “Did things get steamy?”

England punched him.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you’d like! love to hear what you think! i, uh, didn’t know how to write france


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